Zoe Walker Does Skyrim
by Zoe Walker
Summary: Zoe Walker enters Bethesda's fantasy masterpiece, the Elder Scrolls series, by way of Skyrim. People are annoyed! Plot holes are poked at! Daedric Princes are blackmailed! Everybody except Sheogorath wishes that Zoe was somewhere, anywhere else! Things may explode. Things will explode.
1. Helgen Blows!

The first thought through my head was that whatever I'd been drinking last night, I should never touch again. Then, the rest of my thoughts caught up.

I couldn't be hung over, because I hadn't touched booze in over fifty years. Even if I had broken that streak for some reason, if I was hung over, the voices in my head would have been feeling it too. Since they seemed annoyingly chipper, that left one possible culprit for my misery: head trauma. Unlike diseases or chemical influences, I get that all to myself. Joy.

Eyes still closed, I took stock of my body's condition. My head was throbbing, and when I shifted my neck, dried blood flaked off my head. My legs responded normally, which was good. My right arm was tied to my torso with rough, fraying ropes. I tested them, but the bonds were too tight to break. Even worse, I didn't have enough feeling in my fingers to cast even a simple spell. That was less good. My left arm was gone. Slag!

Whoever had captured me had removed my prosthetic arm. While this would definitely make it easier for them to keep me captured, being one-handed and possibly concussed was not a great way to start my day. On the bright side, they left the connecting plate in my left shoulder, so if I could get or build a new arm I could attach it with little trouble. I didn't feel especially hungry, and didn't have any wounds aside from the massive lump on my head, but my armor and clothes had been removed. Instead of my usual garments, I seemed to be dressed in a scratchy burlap sack with arm holes torn in it and a pair of threadbare pants. Neither smelled like they had ever heard of soap and the lice living within were doubtlessly loving their new home. I was sitting on a rough splintery bench, which was swaying from side to side. Between that and the noises around me, I figured that I was in a horse-drawn carriage, being chauffeured to prison or trial with some fellow prisoners. Finally feeling ready to face my circumstances, I opened my eyes.

Sure enough, I was sitting in a cart with three other prisoners, travelling through a pine forest. Wherever we were was probably in close-ish to the poles of this planet, but it was definitely during what passed for summer in this frigid dump. Have I mentioned that I HATE the cold? I do, and so do the voices in my head. When I started studying magic, I focused on pyromancy for several very good reasons, and that was definitely one of them. Another cart with four more captives was rolling along in front of me. The carts' drivers and the mounted guards around me were all wearing some kind of Roman-style leather armor, and their shields sported an unfamiliar crest of a silver dragon. One of the other prisoners in my cart was dressed like I was, but the other two were wearing some kind of uniform. A blue, quilted tunic over light links of poorly made chain mail, by the look of it. I suppose they couldn't afford anything better, but it at least looked warm. The voices idly wondered how hard it would be for me to get one. They both had blonde hair, and looked kind of similar. One of them had a beard and a gag on, and one of them was stubbly and could speak. Stubble soldier noticed that I was awake, and gave me an appraising look.

"Hey," he said to me. A real quick wit, that one. One of the voices suggested I bite his ankles off, but I ruthlessly quashed my errant thoughts. "Are you alright? The Imperials picked you up trying to cross the border. Same as us, and that thief over there" Us probably meant the uniform guys, and Mr. burlap was therefore the thief. The thief gave stubble soldier an angry look.

"This is all you Stormcloaks' fault!" he accused stubble soldier, "the Empire was nice and lazy before you came along. I could have stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now!" I mentally filed that information. If I ever needed to sell a stolen horse here, Hammerfell, wherever that was, was the place to go. Gag soldier grunted furiously at the notion that the Stormcloaks (what a pretentious name!) were at fault for the thief getting captured, and the thief gave him a look of disgust. "What's his problem?" the thief asked stubble soldier.

"Watch your tongue!" stubble soldier exclaimed, whipping himself into a self-righteous fury. "You're speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim!" That's bad for me and the thief. Really bad. If they captured the rebel leader of a rival faction in a war of succession and us along with him, then chances are that the Imperials will execute us all just to be safe. The thief paled, and opened his mouth to say something that was probably cowardly, self-serving, and stupid, so I cut him off.

"So, what you're saying is," I began with a huge 'eat slag' plastered on my face, "Is that you're an idiot who is blindly following an even bigger idiot." The cart driver, who had opened his mouth to shut us up, closed his jaws with an audible snap. "The fact is," I continued, "that you all are obviously incompetent. If you weren't, you would be in one of your strongholds, rather than gallivanting about the countryside with only five guards, waiting for Imperial with an ambush and a little ambition to scoop you up. I have one arm and a head wound, and I could come up with a better plan than that. So because you don't have two brain cells to rub together, we're all bound for the chopping block." Stubble soldier worked his mouth open and shut a couple of times in obvious shock at my words while the thief stifled a dark chuckle and gag soldier, apparently Ulfric Stormcloak, glared at me. It's not like he could do anything else. The driver practically doubled over in a fit of giggles, before putting on an artificially serious face when an officer in higher quality armor gave him a sharp look. As the Stormcloaks, and yes that name is still incredibly lame, glared daggers at me we passed through the gates of a small, roughshod, feudal-looking town.

"General Tullius, Sir. The headsman is waiting." An Imperial inside the gates called out to an old guy at the front of the column with fancy, gold-inlayed armor. I guess the stupidity isn't limited to the Stormcloaks if an Imperial general is just as willing to expose himself. Maybe they use lead pipes for their water or something. Townsfolk muttered as we passed. I blew them a raspberry. The guards and the prisoners gave me a funny look. If you can't beat them, annoy them. Sometimes they get irritated enough to make a mistake.

The carts soon stopped in a courtyard, in front of a bloody chopping block. An officer in heavier Roman-style armor stood next to a bear of a masked axeman dressed in black and an old woman in a robe behind the block. If I had to guess, those were the headsman and a priestess to give us our last rites. I didn't intend to need either, but still. The officer was probably the only real legionary in the group, because she was wearing metal armor. The other Imperials, in lighter leather armor, were probably either scouts or auxiliaries, not front-line troops. My opinion of Ulfric took a nosedive, since the Imperials didn't even need to deploy their elite soldiers to capture him. The Imperials shoved us out of a wagon, and lined us up. Two auxiliaries went to process the prisoners in the other wagon, while the officer and an auxiliary with a book walked over to process us. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm." called the auxiliary, sounding like a bored schoolteacher. Ulfric grunted at him, and then walked off to stand in front of the block. "Ralof of Riverwood." Stubble soldier raised his chin and gave the auxiliary a disgusted look before walking to join Ulfric. I guess stubble soldier, Ralof, and the auxiliary knew each other. "Lokir of Roricstead." The thief, who had been getting steadily paler, gave a start.

"You can't do this to me!" he whined, "We're not rebels! Tell them we aren't with you!" The Stormcloaks from the next wagon over gave him a blank look. With a cry of "You're not going to kill me!" the thief put on an impressive turn of speed. However, he wasn't fast enough to escape the arrow that a guard put through his butt. He lived like a coward, and he died like one too. I felt sorry for him, but was glad he had tried to run. Lokir had shown me the key to escaping, and I would honor his sacrifice by doing just that. After all, the thief had given me a gift of knowledge; if I tried to run, the Imperials would give me an arrow. Taking a deep breath, I expanded my magical senses. Most laypeople don't know this, but the practice of magic isn't limited to casting spells and nothing else. An experienced mage's body is steeped in magical power from long years of practice. As a master of magics of fire, metal, and time, I have several advantages over a normal person. Fire magic renders me immune to the effects of extreme heat. Metal magic lets me sense the presence of nearby metal, handy for pointing out concealed weapons or ambushes. Time magic renders me immune to the effects of age, and grants the ability to see the future. I didn't exactly reach my 25,142 birthday through diet and exercise alone. All of this happens without any use of power on my account.

That said, there are some limits to this, especially my precognition. Generally, I keep it at a low level, no more than three to five seconds into the future. The further ahead one looks, the greater the future one sees varies based on one's actions in the present. Look too far ahead, or lose focus, and one can be driven mad by the overwhelming abundance of information. The last thing I need is to become less sane, so 30 seconds ahead is my absolute limit without extensive meditation to prepare. If I could do it more easily, I probably wouldn't have been captured (Not that I remember how I got here. The concussion probably screwed up my short-term memory.), and Lokir would still be alive. As I expanded my senses, I allowed one of the voices I usually keep bottled up tightly to increase its influence over my actions.

"Wait a minute," the auxiliary said, scanning his book, "You're not on the list. Who are you?"

"This isn't fair!" I whined, allowing a manic expression to cross my face. It must have been effective, because both Imperials took a step back. "I want one too!" The Imperials exchanged shaken glances. Whatever they had been expecting me to say, this clearly wasn't it, and they had no idea what I was talking about. "An arrow!" I clarified. "I want an arrow. That other guy got one and I didn't and that's not fair and I want one!" The Imperials looked at me like I'd just lost my mind. Hah. It's been gone for eons.

"You… want us to shoot you with an arrow," the auxiliary said slowly, as though he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Because we shot him dead for trying to run away and you feel left out."

"Yes!" I clarified, flashing him a winning smile, "Gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie-gimmie!"

"We're not going to shoot you in cold blood!" he exclaimed, doubtlessly full of honor and indignation, and chivalry and all that scrap. I would make a comment about hook, line, and sinker if what I was saying wasn't disturbingly close to how I actually wanted to act.

"Why not?" I questioned, honestly puzzled.

"We can't just shoot you!" the auxiliary shot back franticly, "You're a prisoner of war. It wouldn't be right. We have to follow the articles of war."

"Soooo," I reasoned, "You are perfectly willing and happy to have somebody chop me up with an axe, but you won't shoot me. There is something very wrong with your morals."

"I'm not even sure that we want to execute you," the auxiliary said, "You aren't on the list, so you aren't wanted by the Empire for any major crimes that we know of. We won't execute you for no reason. Who are you, anyway?"

"Forget the list, Hadvar" the officer said, "I'm tired of her drivel. If she was captured with Ulfric, she's probably a traitor too. She goes to the block."

"I'm giving you one last chance," I warned my captors. "We can do this the easy way or the fun way. You shoot me now, or I get shot later, but that arrow will be mine!" They ignored me. "Fun way it is! Hah-HAH!" With that exclamation, I charged forward, surprising them so much that they froze for a second. "An opening!" I shouted, and used the opportunity to jump up toward the auxiliary, Hadvar. I got a brief foothold on his list, another on his shoulder, and a third on his face as I kicked and free-ran my way over his falling, stunned body. Everybody around me froze as I charged the archer that had shot Lokir, laughing crazily. A rhythmic, thudding noise, like air being displaced by a sail, began sounding from somewhere in the distance, but I ignored it. It wouldn't help me get that arrow, after all. The officer definitely had something on the ball. Even if the others weren't, she had to be a real legionary.

"What are you waiting for," the officer bellowed, "Shoot her! Now!" I grinned and slowed my pace slightly, giving the shaken archer I was charging just enough time to draw an arrow and fire it at me. I already knew how this would turn out. As the arrow leapt from the archer's bow, I twisted my body at just the right angle, and with a thud the arrow struck my bindings, shearing through several of the thickest strands. I flexed my arm, and the weakened ropes fell away, allowing me to smash my open palm into the archer's face. As he went down like a sack of bricks, I grasped his gladius and pulled it from its sheath, the short blade gleaming in the light. The thudding grew louder, but I figured it was probably my heartbeat. I knew I should have stretched out my legs before showing that Hadvar guy the usefulness of parkour. I turned to face the crowd while Imperial and Stormcloak alike stared at me in unconcealed astonishment.

"Gotchyer sword! Ah-hahahahahaha!" They stared some more. "You can't tell me you didn't consider doing that," I admonished the Stormcloaks, "or maybe you just aren't as cool as I am. Actually, it's probably the second one." I was so focused on the Imperials, and captors and prisoners alike were so focused on me, that we almost missed the dragon.

The dragon dropped down from the sky, and landed on a tall tower behind the execution block. He was big and black, and his scaly, armored hide was covered in knobs and spikes. His eyes glowed red, lit from within by his internal fires. He opened his mouth and roared something in a guttural language that I understood none of, and the clear sky clouded over. The clouds turned red, and flaming meteorites began to rain from the sky, striking at random. One of them actually struck the dragon, but bounced off without leaving a scratch. The dragon roared something else, and a blast of pure force scattered the Stormcloaks and Imperials in the courtyard, blowing the legionary officer through a house. I decided that was my cue to leave.

I quickly scanned my surroundings, and my eyes lingered on the hole that the officer had punched in that house. The house was on fire, which tickled and licked warmly against my skin as I jumped through the hole. Pausing to check the captain for useful gear, I was disgusted to find that she had basically burst on impact, and disappointed that the leather straps on her armor had already burned away. A pity, because some armor would have been really nice. I dashed out the other side to find Hadvar the auxiliary coaxing a young boy away from a wounded older man, probably his father. As the dragon swooped around for a landing, Hadvar grabbed the struggling boy, and ran for cover right before the dragon landed in front of where he had been seconds ago and bathed the area in dragon-fire. Hadvar handed the boy off to an old, armored man, and gave him a few quick orders. "Gunjar, take the boy and get as many of the townspeople to safety as you can!" Gunjar gave Hadvar a shaky nod, and darted away. "I'm going to find General Tullius and join the defense." The Imperial then turned to me, and reflexively flinched, hand going to his facial bruise, shaped exactly like my heel. "What do you want now, lunatic?!" he spat.

"I don't know about you, but I'd rather not be dragon chow," I told him. "I'm leaving. If you wish to continue living, you ought to do the same. You're no good to anyone if you get incinerated or digested. I saw that dragon shrug off a hit from one of those meteorites falling from the sky. If he could ignore that, nothing in this town is going to even scratch him."

Hadvar pondered my words for a few seconds, and to his credit quickly came up with a workable plan. "With his wings and speed, that dragon will be able to pick off most of the people who flee from the gates. There's an escape tunnel underneath the keep. We should head there, and escape underground." I nodded in agreement with his statements. A tunnel seemed much preferable to being picked off by a dragon on the wing.

The two of us dodged through the wreckage of the town, and made it to the doors of the keep, passing by the smoldering corpse of Ralof. Evidently, he had taken a meteorite hit, as most of his chest was just gone. Quickly, we ducked inside. I took a blanket off of one of the beds inside the keep barracks for warmth, and we made a dash for the exit, avoiding the shell-shocked Imperials and Stormcloaks fleeing the dragon. Fairly soon, but not soon enough for my tastes, we burst from the entrance of a large cave, which the escape tunnel connected to, into the dim sunlight of Skyrim, as this land was called according to Hadvar. The Imperial soldier gave me a tired smile as we stood panting, watching the black dragon wing his way north, into the distance. "Thank you for your help," he stated tiredly, "I don't think I could have made it without you. The closest town to here is Riverwood. My uncle Alvor is the blacksmith. He'll be able to help us out." The soldier glanced at my purloined blanket and borrowed sword with a wry grin, and added, "maybe he'll give you some warmer clothes." As the two of us staggered, exhausted, down a nearby cobbled road, a signpost caught my eye. An arrow in the direction we were heading had the word 'Riverwood' written on it, and another pointing back behind us stated 'Helgen'. Helgen, I thought to myself with a sense of finality. That place blows.


	2. Fetch Quest!

After escaping Helgen and its scaly visitor, Hadvar and I made our way down one of the poorly cobbled roads that seem to be the norm in Skyrim, with the auxiliary in the lead. According to him, the tunnel under Helgen popped us out close to Riverwood, a small villiage home to Hadvar's uncle, the blacksmith Alvor. Both Hadvar and I were exhausted by our ordeal, and we barely talked on the way back. The two of us definitely attracted a lot of stares as we staggered into the sleepy little town. Hadvar's armor was torn and worn, and he had lost the top half of his shield to an optimistic Stormcloak escapee during our flight through the keep. I was still carrying the gladius I had stolen from the archer during my aborted bid for freedom, but the house fire I had walked through had scorched my rags well past immodesty, and both of us were covered in rock dust, soot, and minor wounds. I considered bursting out in song, just to complete the image, but my body decided that it had a better plan, and I passed out instead.

When I came to, I was lying in a warm but scratchy bed, significantly cleaner than before with most of my wounds inexpertly bandaged. When I sat up, a lined, tanned woman in a simple dress approached me. The lady of the house, perhaps. "Are you alright?" she asked with a warm and slightly raspy voice, "I'm Sigurd, Alvor's wife. I'm glad to see you awake. You gave us quite the scare, fainting like that. Hadvar told us what happened, up at Helgen. You saved his life, and any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of ours. I could scarcely believe my ears. A dragon, just like in the old tales. I suppose if you two had been in better condition I might have thought you made the whole thing up." I zeroed in on the most important-sounding part of this statement. Knowledge is power, after all, and I knew nothing of Skyrim.

"Old tales about dangerous things have a nasty habit of being based in half-remembered fact," I told her wearily. This wouldn't be the first time a discounted prophecy of doom had come back to bite someone in the butt. "What can you tell me of these old tales? If dragons are flying about wrecking fortresses, there might be useful information in them."

"I don't know what I can tell you," Sigurd admitted cautiously, "Everybody knows these stories. Besides, that's all they are: stories"

"You may not have noticed," I snarked, "but I'm not exactly from Skyrim. I've never heard these stories. Besides, Hadvar and I's scaly mutual acquaintance suggests that these 'stories' are in fact quite possibly extremely important. Cough up the info and maybe I'll think of a way we can all end up alive once things start going even further into the scrap heap. Please." Sigurd gave me a funny look, which I ignored, and dutifully shared what she knew.

"Long ago, the dragons ruled Skyrim, and held all men under their dominion. When the men rebelled, the dragons brutally slaughtered any resistance. The dragons had the power of the voice. When they spoke, things listened. Fire, magic, the very world itself would bend themselves to the dragons' voices. The goddess of the sky, Kyne, took pity on man and gifted us with the power of the voice ourselves, so that we might defend ourselves and men and dragons fought a great war. However, while ordinary dragons and men with the voice were on an even footing, the dragons were led by a greater being. Alduin, the World Eater, was the first dragon and the greatest of them all. He was created by Akatosh, the dragon-god of time, to devour the world at the twilight of the world. Since his destiny was to destroy the world, he could not be killed before he completed his task. Akatosh too pitied man, for Alduin knew and knows no equal in voice or might. The dragon-god gifted some men with the soul of a dragon, that they might shout naturally and instinctively as dragons do. These dragonborn were capable of destroying a dragon completely by devouring its very soul, and the war turned in man's favor. Eventually, three great dragonborn heroes called the Tongues defeated Alduin in a great battle atop Skyrim's tallest mountain, the Throat of the World. With Alduin defeated, the other dragons were quickly put down. The legends say that Alduin will only return when the world is destined to end for good. They haven't been seen since, until now."

"Then, I think I know what my goals are, at least for now," I mused, "Step one: get decent gear. I am tired of being poorly armed and naked. Step two: replace my arm. Being one-handed is just annoying" Sigurd gave me a shocked glance, like she thought I was crazy but was too polite to say it. Since she was right about the insanity, I ignored it. "Step five: figure out how dragons are coming back, and if Alduin is still kicking. If he is, I need to end him. I can't have the world ending while I'm standing on it. That would suck. Step six: find a way to permanently kill dragons. This probably means finding a dragonborn, which will be difficult because with my luck they are all extinct." Sigurd started to confirm this statement, then gave me a confused glare.

"What happened to steps three and four?" she asked me. Her tone made it obvious she was a mother, and used to taking no nonsense from anyone.

"Murphy's law states that everything that can go wrong will. If things are as critical as they sound, Murphy is going to have a field day." I explained, "It is easier to prepare for the inevitable disaster than to hope that everything goes perfectly right. Steps three and four will be used to deal with these complications, but that doesn't really matter right now. They are called unforeseen consequences for a reason, so I'm going to focus on what I can deal with right now. At some point, I'm going to need reliable allies to make this all happen. I think that taking on an army of dragons might be a bit strenuous, even for me. Maybe Hadvar will help me out. He seems like a death or glory sort of guy." Hadvar picked that moment to walk up from the house's cellar and looked over curiously at the sound of his name. "Hey, Hadvar!" I called out, "How would you like to help scrape together a merry band of slightly unstable badasses, hunt down giant, flaming, magic reptiles, and mount their heads on a wall?" He seemed shocked into silence by this, so I tried to convince or at least bribe him into thinking this would be a good idea. "Come on, man! It's a great idea. Death, glory, riches, deeds worthy of song and legend… Well, hopefully not in that order, because that would involve undead and I hate undead, but still! We could save the world and kill dragons. How could you live with yourself if you turned that down?"

"I don't know about saving the world," Hadvar responded with trepidation, "I don't think we can, not if our enemies are dragons. We're not dragonborn. We're not great heroes like Tiber Septim or Ysgramor. We stand no chance against one dragon, let alone an army of them or Alduin himself. That said, I didn't enlist in the legion because I was a coward. Riverwood is defenseless against a dragon. We should get word to the Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun to send some soldiers to help defend the town."

"It's not like I was suggesting we run out and pick a fight with a dragon right now," I reassured Hadvar, "I'm not that crazy. But, you're right about Riverwood's defenses. A few organized bandits could seriously damage this place, let alone a dragon."

"Exactly," Hadvar eagerly agreed. I suppose that he was happy to have a helpful plan of action that didn't involve suicide by dragonfire. "Are you going to come along? Ordinarily, I wouldn't want a crippled woman anywhere near danger like this, but after those moves you pulled back at Helgen I suspect you might actually be more dangerous than I am."

"I don't know about that," I said diplomatically, "but back at Helgen I was seriously restricted. I was using maybe a quarter of what I prefer to bring to fights." Hadvar looked curious, so I elaborated. "If I had a prosthetic arm, even if it wasn't my original replacement limb, that makes for another quarter. Being well-rested, well fed, and not suffering from a head wound lets me actually cast my spells, which is another quarter. Finally, being properly equipped would give me the rest of what I'm missing. You wouldn't happen to know what happened to my arm, would you? All that's left is this connecting plate, which will let me attach a jury-rigged replacement if I need to, but I'd prefer my original."

"I was there when we captured you, and you only had one arm then. You were buck naked too, and screaming incoherently. Even that, and you knocked out three soldiers with your bare hand before I hit you on the head. It was like you were a completely different person," Hadvar looked me directly in the eyes as he said this, "And now you tell me you're a wizard." He sighed. "I have a homicidal wizard who's been touched by Sheogorath in my house. I invited her in. Please don't turn us all into rodents."

"Why would I do that?" I asked, "You aren't trying to kill me. Poor impulse control and creepy voices that no one else hears does not translate to random violence. Often. Plus, I can't transmute people."

"What?" Hadvar eloquently expressed his confusion.

"I'm not going to kill you, your family, or anyone else in Riverwood, no matter what the voices say," I stated flatly, "I like you people. I can't turn things into other things. My magic doesn't work like that. I can make fire. I can control fire. I can move metal stuff, if it isn't too heavy. I can control lightning. I see things a few seconds before they actually happen. I can teleport about… thirty feet. That is pretty much the limit of my magical powers. Dangerous? Yes. Unmanageable, town-destroying, or super-scary? No. I'm not one of those scary, subtle people. I blow stuff up. That's about it. I am not going to hurt you people on purpose, and especially not with magic." I can't actually teleport. My 'teleport' spell stops time for about ten seconds so that I can bend the laws of physics for a few seconds or appear to teleport. However, this is somewhat complicated, and I didn't want to explain it to him. Explanation or not, Hadvar visibly relaxed.

"That isn't very different from what the Imperial battlemages can do," he informed me and his relatives, and they relaxed too, "You are touched by Sheogorath, the Prince of Madness, but the fact that you actually admit it makes me think you much more trustworthy than a, well, normal insane person. These are insane times, and you actually want to help. Plus, you can light people on fire with magic. I'd be a fool to turn you away. And, I think my uncle can help us get you up closer to full power. He is the town smith, after all." Alvor gave Hadvar a look, like he still wasn't sure I was safe to be around. Hadvar shook his head in exasperation and threw an arm around my shoulders, jostling me like an old friend. "Come on, Uncle. I need her help. We need her help. Divines, the whole world might need her help!"

"If you're sure," Alvor offered cautiously, "What sort of arms and armor do you prefer, girl?"

"Nothing too heavy," I responded. As a skilled smith myself, I was definitely in my comfort zone talking shop, "I'll need a blade that I can use in one hand. I'd prefer steel, but if you have something better I wouldn't say no. As far as armor goes, I don't have the strength for something really heavy, so full plate armor is out. But, I'm not freakishly flexible either, so I don't need full range of movement. In the middle of the weight and protection spectrum is best."

"I have just the thing," the smith stated with relish. He went down into his cellar and came back up with a full set of armor and a long thin bundle wrapped in a thick cloth. "I made this armor for a thane of Whiterun, a great hero of the city about ten years back," Alvor explained, "But the lady died, eaten by trolls, before I could give it to her. Still, it's adjustable and hasn't weakened with time." He held out some cloths to me as well. "Sigurd donated these spare underclothes. They're a bit threadbare, but better than nothing, eh?" Considering that I wasn't really wearing anything at the moment, I gratefully donned the undergarments, and then the armor. Embarrassingly, Alvor had to punch new holes in the armor's straps to keep it from hanging loosely off my slender frame. As much as I might wish otherwise, if I haven't put on any more muscle by now, I won't be bulking up in the future either. Alvor, meanwhile, began unwrapping the bundle. "You are right about the blades, girl. For a dangerous task such as the one I know you are about to embark on, dragging my nephew beside you, ordinary steel will not be enough. I got these in payment from a scholar passing through Riverwood on his way south. He had looted an old dwarven ruin, but his cart full of scrap lost a wheel just outside the town." The smith finished unwrapping a pair of identical sheathed swords that gleamed golden in the faint light. "These blades were made by the dwarves in the ancient times. Simple work, but strong and still sharp, even after all these years. Blades like these are not meant to molder in a cellar any more than they were in some Dwemer vault! You each should take one. May they protect you in the dark times ahead." I gratefully took a sword, and Hadvar did the same. The Imperial also replaced his damaged gear with armor made of hardened leather and a steel-banded buckler. He kept his legion-issue bow and quiver, thought. We left our standard issue Imperial swords with Alvor. If they were good enough for government work, they were clearly untrustworthy. Hadvar and I said our goodbyes to Alvor and his family and took off North, toward Whiterun. As we crossed a stone bridge to the North of Riverwood, I paused for a moment to catch a glimpse of my reflection in the river that probably gave the village its name.

My green eyes flashed, catching the light of the afternoon underneath my usual mess of flaming red hair. My facial scars, a long thin one just under my right eye and a set of patchy bumps dotting the space above my left eyebrow, were already becoming surrounded by freckles from frequent exposure to the sun. My armor gleamed dully in the light, steel arm-guards, greaves, helmet, and mail pieces offset by the hard, brown leather connecting the mail sections on my torso and protecting the rest of my arms and legs. Best of all, the insides were lined with fur, so that even with the metal my new armor was warm. Yep. Even covered in dirt and freckles and barbarian clothes, I look good. Still got it. Oh yeah.

The trip to Whiterun was relatively uneventful, and we soon were in the shadows of the city's massive, crumbling walls. Whiterun was definitely a very strong fortress once, but I don't think it had been well maintained. Parts of the wall were actually falling down! I think that a single dragon would probably have no trouble levelling the place, and it was far better protected than Riverwood! At least there were guards, two of whom stopped us at the main city gate.

"Halt!" One of them commanded me. Since the guards were wearing matching uniforms with full face helmets, I couldn't tell them apart at all. If we ever needed to infiltrate, that could come in handy. Someone hasn't been reading the Evil Overlord List. "City's closed with the dragons about. We can't let you in. Take your business elsewhere!"

I thought for a second, grinned, and opened my mouth. Hadvar, sensing trouble, grabbed me and clamped one of his meaty arms over my face before I could speak. He's a smart man. I knew I kept him around for something. "We have news about the dragon attacks," Hadvar explained. The man was using diplomacy! Where did his sense of humor die, and how can I bring it back? Outrageous. "The Jarl needs to hear what we have to say. It's vitally important."

"Alright," said the other guard reluctantly, "We'll let you in. This time. I've got my eye on you." The guards unlocked the gate, and Hadvar dragged me inside, keeping me gagged until the gates closed, then releasing me to gasp for air.

"Sorry about that," the Imperial apologized, "I figured you were about to say something insulting to them, based on how you acted in Helgen. You did say you had poor impulse control."

"You are absolutely right," I confirmed, giving him a cheesy thumbs-up, "Now, let's go mock a jarl."

"I'm not sure that is a good idea," Hadvar cautioned.

"Of course it is," I shot back cheerily, "If he's a good ruler, he'll appreciate receiving honesty without having to hire a fool first. It saves money. If he's a bad ruler, we don't want his people in Riverwood anyway, and I'll set his house on fire. But, first, I have some business to attend to." With that, I pried a cobblestone up from the street, weighed it briefly in my hand, and tossed it behind my back, over the wall. A yell and a metallic ringing noise filtered through the thick gate, followed by the thump of a body hitting the ground. Hadvar gave me another funny look, and I gazed back unrepentant. "What? That guard totally deserved that. Plus, he was wearing a helmet. He'll be fine. And it was funny." Hadvar looked like he didn't quite buy that, but he didn't bring it up as we walked through Whiterun. Things went well, and incident-free, until we reached a large, open area with a big dead tree in it. Off to one side, a preacher raved about some guy named Talos in front of a big statue. He was annoying. Really annoying. Still, he provided a valuable lesson in the Whiterun judicial system when I shoved a fire spell up his nose and set it off. I may have over-reacted slightly, in retrospect, but all's well that ends well. Apparently, murdering someone in broad daylight with magic in the middle of Whiterun in front of children nets you a fine of forty gold, and then the guards offer to buy you a drink whenever you are in town. Huh. That seemed rather… lenient. Hadvar paid the fine, because I didn't have any money. As we continued our way up toward the Jarl's palace, he lectured me about how I really shouldn't walk up to random people and murder them, but I caught him smiling when he thought I wasn't looking. Several passer-by walked up to us and offered us money, flowers, or favors. I don't think people liked that preacher very much.

The Jarl's palace, which I heard was called Dragonsreach from a fellow pedestrian, sat on top of the highest part of the city, and was clearly fancier than all the other buildings in the city put together. I idly wondered how they replaced roofing tiles when the roof was at least fifteen feet off the ground, since I hadn't seen any ladders around. I also wondered if the jarl would let me go up there and bean someone with one of those tiles, just for the giggles. Clay roofing tiles are the most undervalued weapon in the history of warfare. Seriously, those things are lethal.

Hadvar and I pushed through the massive doors of Dragonsreach and walked into a huge hall that was if anything even more opulently decorated than the exterior. When we walked up into the main hall a slim woman confronted us. She had red hair and eyes, skin the color of volcanic ash, and pointed ears. This led me to conclude she was probably a dark elf. "What is the meaning of this interruption? The Jarl is not receiving visitors!" she questioned us belligerently. She didn't even know who we were and she already wants to fight. What an idiot. We could have had something important to say, like, well, this.

"There are big honking scaly creatures knocking over towns for fun," I gave her my best 'talking to stupid people' voice. I have to use it with depressing frequency. "There is a massive war of succession going on and both sides wouldn't mind securing Whiterun by force. Bandits are apparently everywhere, and they must be pretty formidable because the guards just ignore them unless they invade a major city. Oh, and I kasploded some guy's head out there in front of about ten witnesses and nobody really cared. Someone should probably clean that up before it starts to smell, by the way. I'd say that if your guards let us in, with all the crises going around, whatever we have to say is pretty much guaranteed to be more important than your little paranoid hissy fit. The Jarl evidently isn't keeping you around for quick thinking." When she opened her mouth to say something else I cut her off. "I so do not care about whatever you have to say, and if you are as stupid as you act, nobody else does either. Go sulk in a corner or something. You lackey. The important people have to talk. Oh, and maybe read a book while you're at it. It certainly couldn't hurt." Everyone else in the room, the two bratty little kids and the three big, strapping Scandinavian-looking men near the throne, stared at me in blank astonishment, mouths hanging open. The elf chick turned several shades paler and started to shake in fury. I patted her on the shoulder as I stepped past her, sheer audacity saving me from a violent response. As I passed I picked her pocket, retrieving a small piece of dried fruit, which I flicked at the beefiest of the guys. It bounced off his nose and fell into his open mouth. "Hole in one! Three points!" Some things are more worthy of celebration than others. Elf lady turned around, trying to draw her sword to skewer me, honor and self-restraint subsumed by blind rage. I stopped walking and took a step back, right into her face, trapping her sword arm against her chest, and then trod heavily on her left foot. She cursed and reflexively raised her leg to clutch at the unexpected wound. However, since I was still standing six inches from her she instead bashed her knee into my armored butt with a ringing noise. Overbalanced by the mostly self-inflicted situation she collapsed to the ground cursing in a language I didn't speak. I ignored her even as she switched to suggestions in English for me to have sex with myself and my ancestors at the same time. That sounds boring, and physically improbable. Instead of responding with more snark, I addressed the guys at the throne. "Now that that minor distraction is dealt with, maybe we can get down to business."

"That was my housecarl!" Exclaimed the guy in the fanciest robes, "How dare you come in here and beat up one of my most trusted advisors for no reason at all? I should have you executed!"

"Stop thinking with your pecs for a second, Norse boy," I ordered him. Clearly still in shock, his mouth closed with an audible snap. Definitely still got it. "First off, did you or did you not see her pull a magic sword on me. All I did was take a step backwards. Anything else was her fault, not mine. Secondly, she was endangering you all with her behavior."

"Explain," said fancy dress guy.

"Well, as I said before, what if Whiterun was under attack. What if enemies were breaking in the gate or a dragon had set the palace on fire," I reasoned, fixing him with a serious look, "The delay while she interrogated us could mean the difference between life and death for everyone in here, possibly the city, especially with all the crises going around. Generally, if someone comes in, passing all the other screening procedures out there, fixing to tell the Jarl something important, isn't it better to hear what they have to say before you make a judgment one way or the other. 'Cause the Jarl really needs to hear this. Also, that lady clearly hasn't had anyone deflate her ego in a very long time. It was good for her. Trust me." The guy who I had fruited, who was wearing lacquered scale mail and carrying a claymore, snickered quietly, and then glanced at his companions. One of them, a balding guy who was easily the thinnest of the bunch, looked appalled at my behavior. But fancy dress guy's shoulders shook. It took me a moment to realize he was chuckling.

"I am the Jarl," he said in a commanding voice, "These are my trusted advisors: my brother Hrongar," he indicated fruit guy, "My steward, Proventus Avenicci," he pointed to the balding guy, "and you are already well-acquainted with my housecarl Irileth. While she might not forgive you for a while, I can certainly see your point. If someone is able to get this far, their news had better be important or my guards are totally incompetent. So, what is this news that is so important?" Upon hearing this, Hadvar took the lead.

"Please forgive my… associate," he apologized, "She is touched by Sheogorath. She also recently suffered a debilitating head wound. You know how it is. That said, if it makes you feel any better, lady housecarl, when the Imperials captured her and Ulfric Stormcloak about a day ago, they put them in the same cart. The lady laid into him far worse than she did you. So, it isn't just you. She just has issues with keeping strong opinions to herself."

"You actually told off Ulfric Stormcloak like that?" asked Irileth incredulously.

"Oh, yeah," I confirmed with a blinding grin, "His tactics, manners, minions, and personal grooming habits left something to be desired, so I informed him of it. In great detail, with sound effects. Then I kicked this guy in the face, and made friends with him." I pointed to Hadvar.

"So," Irileth replied, "You kicked him in the face because you wanted to befriend him."

"The two were sort of unrelated," I replied, "but come to think of it I usually end up fighting most of the people I befriend at some point near the beginning of our relationship. It saves time later."

"Does that mean you were trying to make nice with me?" she asked, "I do not think that is the best way to go about it. People might get the wrong idea."

"Why?" I questioned, "You wanna join our merry band of dysfunctional, world-savin' dragonslayers?" Hadvar groaned and cradled his face in his hands.

"We are not a band of dragonslayers," he mumbled from behind a barrier of digits, "In order to be dragonslayers, one has to first kill a dragon. We have not done so because that would be suicide and stop getting off topic!" He gave me the exasperated glare I had already come to know so well. "Jarl Balgruuf, we come with grave news. My associate and I have come from the ruins of Helgen. The fortress was razed to the ground by a dragon during an attempt by the Empire to execute several important prisoners, among them Ulfric Stormcloak. Last we saw of it, the dragon was headed in this direction. We are here on behalf of Riverwood, pleading for the Jarl's aid. If a dragon attacks, Riverwood will be defenseless. Please send some guards to at least help the townsfolk evacuate if disaster strikes."

"We cannot do that!" exclaimed Avenicci nervously, "the Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation! He'll assume that we're preparing to join Ulfric's side and attack him."

"As much as I value your advice, you are in the wrong here, Avenicci," the Jarl stated firmly, "I cannot stand idle while a dragon or dragons fly about destroying entire fortresses. Riverwood could be next! Irileth!" The elf approached Balgruuf and stood at attention. "Prepare a detachment of guardsmen to go to Riverwood. Make sure to send enough to cover the town, but keep the numbers low. We don't want Jarl Siddgeir to get antsy, now do we?" Irileth saluted, and marched out the doors, presumably to carry out the Jarl's bidding. As she passed me, she spoke to me in a low voice.

"While I am honored that a great master of the butt attack such as yourself considers me a worthy dragonslayer, my loyalty is to Whiterun above all else." She gave me a wry smile, "If you should ever manage to face a dragon, put in a few cuts for me, eh?"

"Sure thing," I agreed easily. Hadvar, meanwhile, was still talking to the Jarl.

"These are dark times," the Imperial stated, "My friend and I are prepared to help defend Whiterun in whatever capacity you require with our… unique talents. Surely there is something that capable adventurers such as ourselves could help you with."

"Actually, there is something," the Jarl told Hadvar, "Suitable to your 'unique talents', perhaps. Go talk to Farengar, my court wizard. The fellow in blue." The Jarl pointed out a robed figure in an alcove to the left of the throne. "He has been requesting help for some dragon-related project for a few days now. He'll fill you in on all the details." At a loss for something better to do with my time, I decided to go on Farengar's quest. Maybe it will be useful! Or annoy someone. I don't especially care which. When Hadvar tried to talk to the wizard, he was ignored. When I tried to talk to the wizard, I was ignored. Mistake.

I looked about the wizard's office/lab and spotted a volatile-looking and primitive set of alchemy equipment smoking gently in the corner. Heh-heh-heh. Snagging a glowing gem, a bowl of some blue powder, a rusty dagger, and a book from the wizard's desk, I sauntered over to the glassware. Channelling a bit of magic to my teeth, I bit off the tip of the dagger, chewed it up, and spat the semi-molten mass that resulted into a flask. I ripped a page out of the middle of the book, set it on fire, and poked it through the opening of the flask. Then, I added the powder and a generous helping of spit over the now very attentive wizard's protests, swirled it around with a flourish, and raised it up to slam the lot into the glowy gem. "Not the soul gem!" shouted the wizard in a panic. If he wanted me to pay attention to him, he should have paid attention to me. Maybe some ruined lab equipment would teach him a valuable lesson. I swung. With a ferocious report, the gem split in half, releasing a blast of frigid energy that somehow propelled the metal straight upwards, where it lodged in the Jarl's ceiling. I was mostly just shocked that the whole mess didn't explode. I was kind of hoping it would. "You-you-you!" Farengar sputtered in shock. Some people don't respond to adrenaline well. "Do you have any idea how expensive… how dangerous… how utterly irresponsible that was? You could have killed us all!"

"It's all your fault," I pointed out.

"How is any of this my fault," he blustered. How was it not his fault? Wasn't it obvious?

"I'm not the one who ignored the person who is trying to help him," I motioned to Hadvar as I said this, "I also didn't ignore the sociopathic lunatic with delusions of alchemical skill or leave volatile reagents lying around just begging to be abused. I have a very short attention span. And impulse control issues. And pyromania. How could you be so irresponsible?! You're lucky that I didn't kill us all with my bungling!" He immediately looked contrite. No wonder the Jarl didn't list Farengar as a trusted advisor if the wizard is so easily brow-beaten. What a weak-minded imbecile. Or maybe he just noticed how well armed Hadvar and I are and felt intimidated. Who knows what lies within the hearts of men? The Shadow knows, but I'm not him. His costume is lame.

"What do you people want, then?" the wizard desperately stammered.

"The Jarl said you had a project you needed help with. Something for us to retrieve," Hadvar stated blandly. I guess he was trying to calm Farengar down.

"Erm, yes," the wizard waffled, before pulling his thoughts together. "The Jarl must be referring to my research into the dragons. I need more information on the beasts, and an… associate tipped me off on the location of a map of ancient dragon burial sites. This map was etched onto a stone tablet called the Dragonstone in ages past by the ancient Nords. My associate learned that it may have been stored in Bleak Falls Barrow, just North of Riverwood. If you could go to Bleak Falls, and search for this tablet, it would be most helpful. If the Dragonstone is there, it will be interred in the main chamber with the highest-ranking remains."

"I know where Farengar here is referring to," Hadvar mused, "You can see the barrow from Riverwood. The place always did give me the creeps as a kid, and the stories Uncle Alvor told about Draugr coming down from the mountains to steal away disobedient young boys didn't help. But, Draugr are a myth. Everybody knows that. The worst we'll have to deal with will be some skeevers that wandered in, maybe a few bandits looking for shelter. A giant spider or two if we are really unlucky. The two of us should have no problems at all"

"Good to hear," Farengar said, slightly more warmly, "I wish you luck, and look forward to safe, swift, and successful return." We took our leave of the Jarl's court, and Hadvar shared with me what he knew about the old Nordic tombs as we stayed the night in the local inn, the Bannered Mare, before trekking back to Riverwood to begin our search of the barrow. I never was especially fond of fetch quests, but this one seemed simple enough. How bad could it be?


End file.
